


Tenderly Feral

by pilotisms



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead: Survival Instinct (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Daryl Dixon & Beth Greene Friendship, Daryl Dixon is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Lone Survivor, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader's been Through It, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Trauma, You are too, dumb nicknames
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 21:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: You're used to being alone. Somehow, Daryl Dixon changes that. Alexandria changes that.(Set mid-season 5, canon divergent)





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my blog over at @whirlybirbs on Tumblr!

You’re _quiet_. Mean lookin’ and awfully quiet.  


Daryl Dixon reasons you’re a little bit like a feral cat - used to bein’ outdoors and used to bein’ mean, _mean as can be_. You’re not used to havin’ others around. It _shows. _

You don’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither does he.

You’re with the group a little over a week when you finally speak more than a word – it’s to Rick, saying you saw some formula and diapers and baby blankets in one of the neighborhoods South of Atlanta. It’s a metaphorical olive branch; offered in favor for the next-to-nothing meals and for the church roof over your head…

_ For saving your skin. _

Your voice is a rasp, sounds like you haven’t used it in months. The words fall past your lips slow and sluggish.

(Daryl wonders if it’s from the bruises around your neck, from the hands that had been strangling you into the pavement with no remorse when he found you.)

You’re trying to say thank you. The words don’t want come out just yet. Daryl knows how that feels. So you offer a supply run instead. Risk your neck. Show your thanks. 

You figure you won’t be around for long. Might as well make it worth it. 

The archer squints into the evening sky as a sunset flare draws a halo around your head. 

“Didn’t think t’ grab it, then,” you mutter, lips ghosting over the words as your worried eyes bounce to the cooing infant in the officer’s arms. You toe the dirt, “But, I could grab it now. She’s gotta eat.”

Rick doesn’t trust easy anymore – not to say he ever really did before.

His eyes narrow, a blink of a microexpression that’s laced with skepticism and curiosity and a vague sense of doubt. Despite it, you stand unwavered as Daryl watches through the mousy strands of his hair from the front steps of the church. After a moment, Rick nods. 

His eyes dart across the wooded horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Rick says finally, “Sun’s gonna set soon.”

Daryl watches as you nod, shuffle past, and retreat to the church. His stare follows the steps of your well-worn boots, blue eyes watching as you weave through the open doors to the Lord’s home silently. 

You’re a feral cat tryna be an indoor cat.

But you’re tryin’. 

Daryl guesses that’s all that matters.

✘ 

You prefer being alone.

It’s just… _better_ that way. 

You leave before sun-up and come back that afternoon with a carload of supplies – Daryl isn’t sure how you managed to swing it, heading out to the ‘burbs with the van alone like that, but you do and there’s grub in everyone’s belly at the end of the night because of it. 

It’s either sheer _stupidity_ or _pure survival _and Daryl isn’t sure which one. 

That night, he watches from a few pews back as you fork a can of brown bread into your mouth while you shake a bottle of formula. 

In the lights of the candles, you seem softer – maybe not so mean. 

You present the bottle to Carl, lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile as the boy thanks you and bounces his sister on his hip. 

(The boy reminds you of someone you knew once, then, and the formula hangs between your hand and his as a memory punches you in the gut – you remember Boston, and Pennsylvania, and every loss along the way and Carl sees it before you can wipe it away. You try your best to distract from your gaping wound with a tight-lipped smile, but the burn of tears unfallen paint the boy’s face all sorts of guilty.)

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah,” you whisper, ducking to the ground, “M’ fine.”

You ain’t. Daryl sees that. 

The pew creaks as Rick settles beside the archer.

Silence runs like a river between the two men as you cross the church and settle back against the wall by the altar. They’re both watching, like wolves protecting their pack, and you avoid the weight of their gazes in favor of your canned bread and the small comfort of your corner. 

You swipe angrily at the tears streaking your cheeks. 

Daryl _sees_ it. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he _sees it. _

_ This is why it’s better to be alone.  _

“If we’re gonna move soon, after we get Beth,” says Rick after a few beats of breath, “We need more supplies. Somethin’ t’ last us more than a few days.”

Daryl blinks into his can of beans, knee bouncing.

“Yeah.”

“She offered to show us the spot. Go with her tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, tipping back the can into his mouth as Rick pats his knee. 

✘

“I’m comin’ with you.”

You go rigid, stiff as a board, when Daryl’s voice passes behind you. Swallowing, you bend at the knee and move to finish shoving a few balled up bags and some water into your camping pack – when you stay silent, his boots carry him closer, and you’re left to eye the lopsided laces staring back at you. 

“Y’ alright with that?”

“Don’t matter,” you say, words biting a bit more than you mean for them to; you’re quick to stand, hauling your pack onto your back, “… Does it?”

Suddenly, the world swings on a hinge and like a screen door slamming open, you’re locked in the orbit of Daryl Dixon. The shiner around his eye makes him look meaner than he is. Blue eyes are soft, betraying him even more. You stand straight, unwavering, as the archer wets his lips and breaks away. He toes the ground and swings his crossbow over his left shoulder as he squints along the tree line. 

_ Mean, mean, mean. Ain’t you? _

“No,” he breathes, “It don’t.”

✘

The ride to the South End ‘burbs is quiet.

You forfeited the keys without a fight, swinging yourself into the passagender side of the van – your fingers had clawed at grime and scum lining the windshield only to yield nothing but smears. So, as the van rolls on, you opt to look out the window.

The view, however desolate and broken, is nice. 

After a long stretch of road and a longer stretch of silence, Daryl finally speaks. Blue eyes dart to the curve of your face. They linger, following the column of your throat. 

“… Those bruises are healin’ up good.”

He eyes the road with a noted sense of worry. 

Again, you seem to stiffen and turn inward. Your hands fly to your neck, pushing the collar of your worn flannel up. The brush of your fingers spurs a wince that flashes into a snarl. Daryl sees it. 

_Mean_. 

You plant a boot on the dashboard and cross your arms. 

And that’s that. 

✘

You manage to stock up three bags of cans, water, and medical supplies. 

It’s not much but it’s _something_, and as you drag yourself up into the van, you catch Daryl’s figure in the rearview. There’s a cigarette hanging between his lips, fingers prying at a bag in the trunk – the smell of nicotine is better than that of the upholstery which has seemingly soaked up all the residue from it’s previous owner. 

The stain in the carpet is big. 

Your eyes fleet up from aforementioned stain, connecting with Daryl’s like keys fitting a lock. 

He’s _always_ watching. 

You reason Daryl Dixon is a bit like a fighting dog – nasty when he needs to be and fiercely protective. It shows. 

He doesn’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither do you. 

(Even when if he is the man who’d saved your _fucking_ life. Even if Daryl Dixon is the man who’d pried another living being off you – even if he’d tackled that fuck to the ground while you gasped for air and stars swam in your eyes. Bloodied fingers clawed at the hot pavement and the world swayed, but you could breathe and you were alive, even if the sound of a tinkering belt and violent threats still sat in your ears.)

Trustin’ ain’t easy now-a-days.

✘

The dance of candlelight carves his face into something softer – you swear you can see the play of a smile there when Carol talks; as the grey-haired women waves her spoon and shrugs, you find yourself missing conversation for the first time in a long time. 

Maybe you have been alone for too long. It shows in moments like these.

You tuck your knees closer and fork the peaches in the tin can with an edge of frustration. In your corner, you sit, far from the lull of the group’s conversation. 

But, it’s Tyreese who drags you up from the bottom of that pit of loneliness – the deep baritone of his voice rouses your attention. 

“… Where are you from, newbie?” he asks, words weighted with sincerity, “Where’s home?”

(You’re _not_ a newbie. Maybe that lanky boy Noah is, but you’re not – this is just something temporary between the running. This group… well, _nothing_ is ever permanent anymore. Especially with the current state of things.)

The conversation holds itself still the lungs of those around you, stuck in their throats as Tyreese drives apart the sea and welcomes you in with a kindness unfounded. 

Your eyes hit the bottom of your can. The sugar sweet peaches glisten like tears. 

“Boston,” you muster finally, exhaling. 

_ “Christ.” _

A sea of murmurs. You can feel the distrust of Rick and Michonne in the tempered reactions – as Rick bounces a cooing Judith, you’re suddenly feeling like the flame the moths flock to. You feel obligated to share this part of your story, after all isn’t that what people do? 

You’re not sure. When you’re alone, you avoid the living like the plague. 

But, despite your hang-up’s and hesitation, you nod again, move forward and sit up. You swallow and wet your lips. 

“Been on the road for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since it started.”

Daryl’s face flinches. You see it. He knows.

“Why?” asks Michonne with a pointed edge, “Why not… _settle?” _

“I did,” you say, “Tried to, at least. Then people died, shit fell apart, and… I kept moving. I had to.”

“Alone?” asks Rick, eyes narrowed. 

You nod. Shame weighs your shoulders. 

“Seemed like I was bad luck,” you chirp, “Real bad.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says Tyreese, “And we’re glad.”

You wonder if that’s a good thing, after all. 

✘

“Here.”

You narrow your eyes.

In his hands hangs a tube. The label is faded. 

You squint up at Daryl Dixon from your spot on the church’s steps as a mid-day sunray curls right around his head like a halo. His face is set in something awfully serious. Fiercely protective. Like a damn fightin’ dog. 

(You wonder who holds the choke chain, who yanks the leash. 

Is it Rick?)

You take it, confusion flying across your face. 

“It’s some cream,” he says, “Carol found it. Said it’s good for bruises.”

You see the way his eyes fall on your throat. 

“M’ fine,” you croak, “It… It don’t even hurt.”

“_Bullshit_.”

“How would _you_ know, huh?” you bite, lips snarling, “I’m _fine_.”

“‘Cuz I been choked out before,” Daryl snaps back, looming closer, “Take th’ _damn_ cream.”

You do, only with a lasting look of irritation. The moment the tube leaves his hands, he relaxes. 

Like that, the air dissipates into stillness. 

Daryl’s eyes roam the steeple. When you speak, it catches him by surprise. 

“… Thanks.”

You’re still feral. But you’re tryin’.

✘

You stay back – you don’t know much about this mission to save one of their own, but you know you want nothin’ to do with the pigs in that hospital. You’ve met them before, out on the streets of Atlanta, and you have no intention of meeting them again. 

The thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth. 

And when there’s trouble with the walkers that crawl to the church, following the hysterical father, you barricade them in alongside Michonne without second thought – but this turn of fate dredges up this gut-churning feeling of bad luck. 

_ Bad, bad luck.  _

And then, a fire truck full of friendly faces plow into your concept of bad luck and compounds it with a lie about a cure for all this and a busted trip to Washington. 

And then, when you all drag yourselves to Grady Memorial and Daryl Dixon hauls a dead Beth Hershel out those back doors in his arms? When Maggie, the kind woman with the kind drawl crumples at the sight? When Daryl wails and Carol tries – god she tries – to calm them both down?

You’re left to wonder if you’re better off alone.

If you and your bad luck is better off in the streets.

_ Mean and awfully quiet.  _

✘

The group finds two cars. 

They park in the woods and bury Beth at sun-down under a sky of red. 

You pass dirt along the grave and remember a prayer from long ago. It’s a croak on your lips but it means something to Maggie, who reaches for your hand and thanks you after it’s all said and done. 

Grief sits heavy in Daryl’s gut. 

He’s at the edge of the makeshift camp, nothing but a shadow. But, you find him. 

In your hands is a can of beans. 

You settle next to him on the log. The wood groans but Daryl doesn’t flinch – his eyes art trained on the low fire that glows before his boots. The embers crackle. He inhales, sharp and fast, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s been crying. 

So, you pull your knife from your boot and crack the top of the can open. You gesture it towards him.

_ “Eat.” _

“I ain’t hungry.”

Your jaw tightens. 

Silence draws itself up between you and Daryl and dances in the flames of the campfire. You bounce your knee and clutch the can. That suffocating silence swells there, finally bursting when you turn to eye him with a careful amount of worry. 

“… Who was she?”

You see his mouth move. His brows knot, then his face falls. 

“A friend,” he whispers, “_Family_.”

You wonder what that’s like – to have both of those with the current state of things. 

(You had it once – before things fell apart and you started moving on your own. You had a sister and friends and people who had killed for you by your side. You’d killed for them, too. You would, again. Maybe you’d kill for Daryl, too. A part of you already feels like you _owe_ him.)

“I know it’s not my place,” you say slowly, “But she’d want you t’ eat.”

Daryl’s eyes rocket upwards, catching your expression. 

He knows your right. 

He takes the can and your fingers brush. 

“… Thanks.”

And that’s that.

✘

Tyreese.

You liked him.

You forgot how this felt. Loss. Grief. Death.

You stand shoulder to shoulder beside Daryl over a shallow grave. 

And you cry.

✘

It’s _bad_.

You’re _bad_ – you’re nothing but bad luck and all this? This is how it’s gonna end.

A thousand miles, and_ for what?_ To _starve_ on a Georgia highway? 

Behind you, like a ball and chain, is a horde of walkers that snarl and gasp and trudge along, waiting for one of you to drop. You wonder if you’ll go first – if your last meal will really be peaches. _Canned fuckin’ peaches. _

You swallow, swipe at your clammy skin, and keep moving.

For the first time in a long time, you’re tired of moving. Tired of running. Of being alone. 

For the first time in a long time, you glad you’re not alone. 

Daryl is lingering behind you. His steps are sluggish and his crossbow is slung across his waist, posed and ready. The vest around his shoulders is soaked, tattered shirt darkened with sweat. You’re no better. The hair along your neck clings with reckless abandon. You spare him a glance, then slow up to match his pace.

You’re quiet for a while, steps falling in with his. 

And then you speak.

“I never said thanks.”

Daryl’s face gives nothing away. HIs eyes, though, dart to you for a moment. When you speak, your eyes are off on the horizon.

“That guy was gonna kill me over a can of soup,” you speak slowly, ignoring the garrish flashes of the scene that unfolds behind your eyes every-night, “And you stopped him.”

“… Had to.”

“No,” you shake your head, finally breaking to look at him, “You didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a few feet, then he sighs. “Jus’ ‘cause things have got t’ shit don’t mean people don’t matter.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I’m bad luck.”

“You’re not.”

“Ever since I joined up,” you drawl, movements sluggish as the horizon glimmers, “I… People have –”

“It_ ain’t_ your fault.”

His words are firm, backed by a rush of anger that knocks you for a loop. Daryl staggers along, face set in some unreadable way that leaves you wondering what he really thinks – he’s like Rick and Michonne. Pointed and distrusting, but there’s something else there. 

“Tell the others I’m goin’ t’ look for water.”

He dips into the woods and disappears. 

_ Mean and awfully quiet.  _

✘

He doesn’t find water.

But when the skies split open and pour rivers of rain down on you all, you find yourself not caring. You lay in the street beside Tara and Rosita and you laugh – peels of joyous sounds that mesh as the group scrambles to grab bags and bottles. 

And when the sky _roars_, you and the group hole up in that barn down off the beaten path. 

You curl up in a corner, far from the fire, as the come-down of the day seeps into your bones with the rain. 

It’s Daryl who approaches, rousing you from a half-sleep. 

He plops down against the hay bail, prompting you to stir. 

You inhale and shift, rubbing your eyes. You blink at him, caught in the tired look on his face and the cut of his cheeks. He looks rough – you haven’t known him long but you know this isn’t him. He’s a ghost of himself. Between grief and starvation, Daryl Dixon looks nothing like the man you’d watched nights ago back in the church, glowing in the light of prayer candles and good grub. 

“You okay?” you ask softly, voice nothing more than a mere wisp. 

“I wasn’t gonna save you at first,” he blurts, “Wasn’t gonna fight that guy, wasn’t gonna… _stop him._Things have been bad and…_ I don’t –…”_

His words die. Your chin drops. 

“All this?” he gestures suddenly, “All this is just remindin’ me I’m _alive_, y’know?”

You turn to eye him, then nod. “Yeah.”

His fiddles with his fingers. Silence creeps between you two and your chest aches with some sort of feeling you’re not too sure of. Maybe it’s dread? Maybe it’s regret or… distrust. You don’t know. But it’s not nice.

“I’d do it again,” he leans, “If I had to.”

“Do what?”

“Kill someone,” Daryl mumbles, “If it meant savin’ you. I don’t regret that.”

You think of the sound the crossbow bolt made when it passed through that man’s skull. You think of Daryl, scrambling to help you up as a group of walkers creep in – you think of him and Carol, prying you out of the thick of it and saving your fucking life. 

“You don’t know me,” you say slowly, “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

“I’d know,” he watches you and you feel like you’re stuck in cement, “Everyone would know. But you ain’t bad. You know that.”

_ Maybe you do.  _

Again, the quiet rolls in like mist in the morning. You’ve started to realize it’s a part of Daryl – he isn’t a talker, not like Glenn or Eugene. He’s quiet and reserved and he picks his words; there’s nothing that doesn’t matter in the way he speaks. It’s all him. 

He spins a piece of grain between his fingers.

Your head rolls. You trace his profile with your eyes. 

“M’ sorry about Beth.”

“Yeah,” he breathes as he drops his head back, “Me too.” 

“… Think we’ll survive this?”

“We always do.”

✘

His name is Aaron.

And you don’t trust him.

You wonder if it’s because you’ve met men like him before – promising a safe place to rest your head. Promising safety and a future. Those men have all been liars, thieves, murderers. 

(You wonder if this is how Rick felt about you. If welcoming you in with Daryl’s blessing was met with the same hesitation? Were you once nothing more than another Aaron?)

But… he’s _not_ lying.

Rick notes your discomfort. He needs that. He needs the good and the bad and the ugly, the trusting and the distrusting. He’s a good leader – you’re seeing that now in the ex-cop. 

That’s how you get shouldered in between Aaron and Michonne in the backseat of that shit-box Lincoln. That’s how you plow through the dead at 45 MPH, heart dropping into the pit of your gut as you haul ass out of the car and plunge your hunting knife into as many heads as you can. Your survival instinct is feverish and terrified and full of _desperation_; as you roar, Rick watches. 

In a flash, something settles between you both. 

You book it through the woods and hit Route 16 with no RV in sight. 

No Carl, no Judith… _No Daryl._

The moon casts inky shadows in your wake. 

No time to stop. You all keep moving.

✘

Rick whistles. He gives a call.

There’s a response. 

You carry yourself into a collision of an embrace – Daryl curses, quietly, as he sways on his feet and grips your shoulders tightly. In the light of the alleyway, it’s just the two of you; the moment passes like a ship in the night and peel yourself away with a broken laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back and gauging you. The touch makes his skin hot.

“Fine,” you croak, “You?”

“Never better.”

✘

Alexandria is what they call it.

In the cramped back of the RV, you spare Daryl a look as the vehicle rolls to a stop and Abrahram announces the arrival with a measured level of reservation. 

You can’t remember the last time you stopped running.

No better time than the present.

After all, you’re just a feral cat, tryin’ its best to be indoors.


	2. ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Daryl talk, but not much is said. A blanket is shared.

Deanna seems… _nice_.  


All of this seems nice. _Too nice._

Like a dream. 

(You’re waiting for the twist; when does this dream turn into a nightmare? When does someone pull a gun, force you to your knees, and pull the trigger?)

The floorboards creak under your boots as you move through the living room, eyes drawing up the walls decorated with wallpaper and photos and curtains and… life. This home is full it, bursting at the seams with it. It smells like vanilla and laundry. Outside, the birds chirp and the sun filters in through the windows to dance on the carpet. 

It feels like some sick joke.

“Do you mind if I film this?”

You swallow, lashes kissing your cheeks as you blink away your cynicism. Your head swivels, flying to find Deanna standing in the doorway. There’s a creeping feeling under your skin; it’s a mix of distrust and confusion and fear… 

“Who _are_ you?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she says softly, settling in, “So sit. And we’ll talk.”

So you do.

** ✘ **

You leave the house after an hour.

A shaky breath falls from your lips as you pull the door shut and find Daryl lingering on the porch. He turns, cigarette hanging between his fingers as you wring your own hands. Blue eyes slip along your form, eyeing your posture and expression – worry flashes across his face like a lightning strike. 

(He’d been waiting close by. Didn’t wanna leave you alone. Not with some stranger. Not in some… _house_. Daryl doesn’t trust this. You don’t either. He can see it on your face.)

“You okay?”

His voice is a rumble. Like thunder on a humid night. 

“M’fine,” you breathe, stepping forward. The others watch the exchange from the lawn. You move to pass but slow up, letting your shoulder touch his. After a beat, your raise your chin you speak lowly, “Be nice.”

His lip quirks. Like a snarl. He flicks his cigarette off the porch and drops his head. He exhales a laugh. 

He’s last to go. 

“Me?” he croaks, brushing by, “M’ always nice.”

** ✘ **

“What did you do?” Deanna had asked, “Before all this?”

Your lip had twitched. You had fussed in your seat, crossing your legs and leaning forward and shaking your head. The look on your face, at that moment, was steeped in an emotion shaken and stirred with nostalgic regret. You scratched your brow as your mouth moved… but, nothing came out.

So, Deanna waited.

Your eyes traced the pattern in the rug for the hundredth time. 

Then, you cleared your throat and spoke.

“I was a teacher.”

** ✘ **

Rick insists on sleeping in the same house tonight, together. 

While everyone begins to hunker down, you poke around the house. It’s nice, something that would go for a million in the suburbs outside of Boston. It’s got a lotta space and good lighting and better bones. 

Michonne catches you in the upstairs bedroom. She leans in the doorway, head tilting as she watches you fleet from wall to wall. When she does speak, her voice is soft. You jump.

“There’s a change of clothes in the dresser,” she says, “Should fit you… and the shower’s open.”

You blink at her. Shock draws up your brows.

“Shower?”  


A nod.

“… Hot water?”

Michonne just smiles.

(The paint in the bathroom reminds you of your cousin’s house. Heron grey.)

You spend a good _hour_ in there – scrubbing and washing and grinning ear-to-ear for the first time since this whole thing went down. The shampoo smells like a life you lived before and when you step out into the steam of the bathroom, you can almost pretend the world is normal again. The towel is _soft_ and the air is _warm_ and your happily pull on the pair of jeans and sweater that Michonne had laid out. 

You pad downstairs, face happy and eyes heavier. 

Daryl is in the kitchen, poking around for a snack, when you wander in.

You smell like… fruit. _Flowers and fruit. _

He squints.

“You clean up nice.”

He means it.

You snort through your nose and snake around the counter. There’s a basket of fruit there – so you pluck an apple from the bunch and move to lean against the marble island. Daryl, still dirty and still fussing, continues to dig through the cabinets.

“You gonna shower?” you ask after a few bites of the apple.

“Nah,” he spits, “_Later_.”

You roll your eyes. Daryl catches it. He drops his crossbow on the counter with a rattle and hops up, legs swinging. You move closer, crossing the kitchen to lean against the counter next to him and look out the window above the sink. In the next room, the chatter of the group washes out the silence. 

You raise the apple, offering it.

The moon hangs high in the sky.

He takes it, bites, and hands it back.

“Think we’ll stay?”

“Dunno,” Daryl mumbles, “… I dunno.”

You just nod and chew your apple.

** ✘ **

“We have a school,” Deanna had explained, “And we need teachers. Our children… they’re our _future_.”

You fell quiet, arms wrapping around yourself as your knee bounces. 

It hurts to remember your classroom – to remember your kids, your coworkers, your school. When things got bad, FEMA rolled in and made it a shelter, but with no National Guard left for stationing and a rampant looting problem spreading through the city, things went south _fast_. Those children… your chest aches to think about where they are now. If… If they _are_… if they just _are_. 

“I know that.”

“Will you help?” she asked, “Teach them? Math, art, science, history… anything.”

“I taught fourth grade.”

Deanna smiled at you like you were the sun, then. 

And you felt sick.

** ✘ **

The living room is full.

There’s a roof over your head and food in your belly and a pillow under your head. You’re safe, as safe as you probably could be. Behind two feet thick steel walls and the four more that make up this damn Alexandria _mansion_. Rick and Michonne and Daryl are here. Glenn is here. Maggie, Sasha, Carol… Everyone. 

Except Tyreese, except Beth. 

But, you’re here. And _you’re safe._

And still, you can’t sleep.

You roll, hips complaining from the position you’d taken up in the corner. The blanket around your shoulders is warm, and falls around your waist as you sit up, hair wild, and sigh. 

Daryl, still perched at his spot by the window, can see the frustration written on your face from across the room. 

Your eyes catch his, and he speaks softly.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

** ✘ **

You wrap your arms close around you, steps falling in line with Daryl’s as you sniffle and shiver a bit. It’s getting colder now with autumn creeping in – it’s not as cold as Boston, though, so you suppose you’re thankful. The first winter there was miserable; the walkers froze solid, so it was safer, but with no heat and no food?

You were as good as frozen. 

The sound of a pack of coyotes baying in the distance brings you back.

Alexandria is _quiet_ – the only lights come from the moon overhead and the candles glowing in windows here and there. The tops of the trees bleed into the horizon like ink in water. It’s peaceful, air filled with peepers and crickets and the kiss of the wind in the trees.

Daryl’s hands are shoved in his pockets. 

His breath, glowing in the cold, curls around him as he speaks.

“… She give you a job?”

You’re quiet for a while after he asks. As Daryl walks, he watches your face out of the corner of his eye. You’re thinking – your face is warped into a look he’s never seen before. It’s heavy with concentration. But not on the conversation. 

Once you hit the end of the block, you shrug. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, “She did.”

Daryl blinks up at the stars. Tries to play off his interest.

“Somethin’ good?”

“Somethin’ I used t’ do.”

His brow lifts. “Before all this?”

“Yeah,” you parrot with a lack of substance, “Before all this.”

His head falls. His hair is in his eyes when he stops short and looks at you.

“Why?”

Your nose scrunches. 

“Why what?” You keep walking. 

Daryl hops to catch up. 

“Why th’ whole…” he gestures at you, “… Why’re y’ _mad?”_

“I’m not mad,” you mumble as you walk, shaking your head. You turn to catch his eyes. In the light of the moon, he seems more boyish than before. A little worried, a little scared. You slow down to let him catch up fully. “It’s just scary. I don’t… I don’t trust all this.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Neither do I.”

“That why you weren’t sleeping?”

Daryl nods. You hum.

“You?”

You laugh bitterly as you round another corner, shoulders brushing his. “I’m just… I haven’t slept in a house in… _months_, maybe. Not one where I didn’t have to keep an eye open, or… Or one where I knew I was… _safe_. But, I don’t know that. I don’t know that I’m safe. I want it to be true, but…”

“But, we don’t know.”

You cross your arms tighter and inhale as you stop, facing him fully. He takes pause, too, and rocks on his boots. As your eyes scale him, his drop. He shrinks, then, toeing the pavement.

“What did _you_ do,” you ask then, spurred by a moment of wonder, “Before all this?”

Silence is the response. Then, he reaches and digs out a cigarette from his vest. 

“Does it matter?”

His lighter clinks open, then closed. His face is illuminated by the embers of the Marlboro.

“It did,” you shake your head, eyes glimmering with exhaustion and sadness, “To _them_.”

“I was nobody,” he chirps, wetting his lips and shrugging. He turns on his heel. You follow, “_Nobody_.”

“You were somebody to someone,” you mumble, not complaining when his arm brushes yours. He’s heading back to the house, “Right?”

He dodges the question, fast and hard. “What about you, huh? Before shit went down, what’d y’ do?”

“Fourth grade.”

“What?” he squints.

“I taught,” you laugh a little, dry and sad, “I taught fourth grade.”

Daryl slows up, for a second, and lets his face soften. He can see it now – you, showered and in fresh clothes and looking happier. He could see you, wrangling in a bunch a’ screaming kids. Teachin’ math, or arts ‘n’ crafts. He can see you being not-so-feral. Reading along, recess duty, and PTA meetings. 

You note the expression on his face. Yours warps into one of sheepishness. 

“What?”

_“Nothin’,_” he chirps quietly, taking a drag of his cigarette, “I can see it, s’all.”

“_You can see it?”_ you jab, knocking his arm, “What’s that mean?”

Daryl just shrugs. And you let the ghost of a smile play on your lips.

As he makes his way up the steps, you linger. He takes note and leans against the porch beam.

“Y’know,” he rasps, “This is th’ most you’ve ever talked, but you ain’t sayin’ much.”

You guess he’s right. 

So, you follow him inside.

**✘**   


“Your friend outside… _Daryl_, is it…?”

You pulled up your gaze from the carpet, a soft look flickering there. Deanna saw it. It brought a smile to her face, then, and she nodded knowingly – her hands were knotted as she spoke. 

“Is that what you are…?” she asked, “_Friends…?”_

You felt like you’d got cottonmouth.

“… Why don’t _you_ ask him that?”

“_Oh_,” she laughed, “I will. But… I have a feeling he’s gonna give me a run for my money, isn’t he?”

“… He saved my life.”

“You _owe_ him,” she spoke quickly, “Or… you… _feel_ like you do?”

“Maybe.”

She hummed. 

And you let that hit you like a ton of bricks.

**✘**

_ “Quit squirmin’.” _

You’re tossing and turning and it’s not until you’ve accidentally elbowed Daryl twice in five minutes that he speaks up. The whisper falls on your ears with a pointed edge, weighed with the bleariness of sleep. The archer kicks his legs then, rolling to look at you from over his shoulder. 

You groan, palming at your eyes as you roll flat on your back and huff. 

You croak out an apology. 

Daryl exhales, making a point of his sleep-driven irritation, before he rolls back over to face the wall. 

He, however, does not go back to sleep. Instead, he stares at the wall and _thinks_. 

Daryl Dixon does a lot of thinking – might not show, but he _does_. He sure as hell doesn’t speak his mind, but the man works things out up top before he acts. He’s grown past firing from the hip… most of the time. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t get angry or frustrated or violent. Just means he’s careful. 

And right now, he’s got a lot on his mind. 

Your breathing never evens out – it’s still shallow and you’re still fussing. So, Daryl decides it’s in his best interest to do something. Y’know, so you won’t keep him up and he can get some damn sleep. 

He promptly rolls flat on his back and hauls his blanket up over the two of you. 

He sees your lashes dances as you blink, confusion flying across your face as you turn to eye him. He dodges your glance, eyes focused on his hands as he tucks the blanket over you and rolls to lay on his stomach. He drops his face into the pillow, ignoring the way your shoulder fits up against his ribs and how your legs touch his, and croaks out a grouchy:

“Go t’ bed.”

And that’s that.


	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends, he supposes, is a good place to start.

When you wake up, the world is quiet.  


The only sound is that of your breathing. You pull open your eyes, still heavy from sleep, and are greeted with the golden rays of the morning sun creeping in through the living room’s windows. The crisp, early breeze kisses the curtains, rippling the fabric like waves in the sea. The sun is warm on your cheeks. Everything is still. _Peaceful_. 

So, for the first time since this all started, you roll over and go back to sleep. 

Your knees knock Daryl’s, thigh pressed up against his as you bury yourself into your pillow and slip back under into sleep. 

And Daryl watches it all – watches you nestle into the blanket you’d unceremoniously stolen from him during the night, watches you inhale and exhale and tumble down into your dreams for another few minutes of bliss. 

You nudge his hip with yours, content with the shared body heat of the touch. 

It’s enough. His skin buzzes at the contact. 

He’s not a religious man – never has been. Merle neither. His pa sure as hell wasn’t, but his ma? Daryl can remember a glimmering golden cross around her neck; he can remember a prayer before dinner, a whispered prayer and before bed. She sure as hell wasn’t anything holy, but _Hershel_… Hershel had spoke of angels and heaven and all things beautiful in this world. 

Daryl figures you’re just about all those things right now. 

It’s like a punch in the gut.

** ✘ **

You feel _stupid_. 

You look like you belong out _there_. As Carol changes behind you into an outfit that screams parent-teacher meeting, you huff and shrug on another sweater in hopes of looking less like you’ve just walked in from outside. You’re supposed to be a teacher. You’re supposed to be soft and kind and even-tempered and alive. 

You don’t feel like any of those things.

The problem is, it’s set in your cheeks. In your eyes. You can’t shake the outside.

You’re on your third change of clothes when Carol speaks.  


“Hey.”

Your hands are shaking from frustration. You drop them to your hips and serve her a miserable look in the mirror. 

“Why don’t you wear the blue one?” she says softly, “It looked nice.”

“… I don’t want to do this.”

It blurts out from your lips quicker than you can catch it. 

And Carol’s face warps into a look of calculated confusion. 

But, before she can console you, you swipe at your eyes and haul on the blue sweater and tug your hair up and away – the bruises around your neck have faded off into a delicate yellow color. If you squint, they look like nothing more than a smear of dirt. 

“You know…” Carol speaks after a few beats of silence, “I don’t think any of us are ready to do this yet.”

You swallow. Your eyes hit your hands and you wring your fingers. 

“I wanna try,” you breathe, “But…”

“But it doesn’t feel real.”

“Like it’s a dream,” you rush out, “And when I wake up –”

“None of it will have ever happened?”

Yeah. Something like that. 

Carol’s hand touches your arm.

“When you an’ Daryl found me,” you shake your head, eyes fleeting shut as you grapple with the sting of tears, “I was gonna _give up_, y’know. After all these months of just… running and _surviving_ and… doing what I had to do? I was _tired_. I was… I was tired of being alone. A-And, now we’re here and we’re alive and I… I slept in a _home_… A real home…”

“It’s okay,” Carol steps in to sweep her hands along your arms, “It’s okay to be afraid.”

You don’t know how to tell her you’re not. And that’s the worst part.

You don’t feel a damn thing. 

** ✘ **

You slip onto the porch before Carol, feeling out of place and uncomfortable. 

Daryl’s there – he’s posed on the railing, perched precariously against the beam as he cleans his crossbow and loads and unloads his bolts. He’s not really there, he’s miles away, thinkin’ about things that he has no business thinkin’ about. Being in these walls… He can feel himself going soft. So, his own walls climb higher and higher up. Like armor around his heart. 

And then you smile at him and they just… _crumble_. 

It’s not a real smile. It’s tight-lipped and full of anxiety. But, it’s something softer than he’s used to. Your arms are wound tight around yourself, boots toeing the boards of the deck when he speaks up. 

“… You look nice.”

Compliments. That’s a thing – ain’t it? Pretty girls love compliments. 

(Daryl wonders, off-handedly, when he started caring what pretty girls thought.)

“Yeah?” you shirk, glancing down at your outfit, “I think I look stupid.”

“Nah,” he croaks, eyes lingering on your face, “You look… _good_.”

You don’t feel it. 

You don’t feel a damn thing. 

Daryl sees it.

Carol steps out before you can speak, smile cut into her features at the sight of you both. In recent days, you’ve started to like the older woman – Daryl’s apparent respect and care for her have gone a long way in your eyes. You relax a bit at her appearance. She looks as… _domestic_ as you do. Her face lights up at the sight of you and Daryl chatting, and she makes a point of quirking a brow his way.

He ignores it. 

“Have you showered yet?”

Her hand pats your shoulder, chin jutting as if to say let’s go – and as you descend the steps, Daryl makes a huffy sound. 

“Later.”

“M’ gonna hose you off in your sleep.”

“You look _ridiculous_, y’know.”

“Ha ha,” Carol chirps, “Shower. At least _try_ to make this work, Daryl.”

He tosses his hand, something playing behind his eyes as he scoffs again. 

_ “Ridiculous!” _

You’re laughing a little as you head to the school, and Daryl sees it. 

** ✘ **

“She’s stronger than you think, y’know.”

Carol scoffs at Daryl’s words. Behind her, Rick’s eyes narrow as he watches the treeline. It’s still early. The morning sun hasn’t hung itself high in the sky yet.

Daryl’s hand are glued to the strap of his crossbow. He grips the black strap tight, knuckles going white. Irritation bites at his nerves, then, boiling at Carol’s sudden motherliness – she does this sometimes, and he hates it. Merle did shit like that, too. Tried t’ be the daddy he never had. But… Carol’s different. Like a sister. A good sister. She means well.

“She’s _afraid_,” Carol mutters, “She’s like a deer. Skittish.”

“She ain’t used t’ settling down,” Daryl supplies, “She ain’t weak.”

“Neither are we,” Rick chirps, moving to toe at the blender by the abandoned home on the outskirts of Alexandria’s walls, “And that’s what we need right now. We don’t know if this will work out.”

“We oughta try,” says Carol, “Or… I dunno, make it seem like we are.”

Silence slips between the trio. 

“For now, this stays between us,” Rick breathes, “And we try.”

** ✘ **

You don’t know about that.

Because after one day of trying and four people asking you if you’d be at Deanna’s dinner party later, you’re about ready to run. You could pack your bag and be outta here in an hour. Forget this sweater and this fuckin’ McGraw-Hill science textbook in your hands. 

The kids… there’s about ten of them. In the morning, it’s the younger ones. Later, it’s the older ones. It’s a good system, but as you introduced yourself and the days materials, you couldn’t help but feel like a _fraud_.

This version of you died _months_ ago. 

Daryl is swaggering towards the gates when you break at noon. 

You cross paths like two comets in the sky, stopping short before one another without a word. 

“How was it?”

_ “Shit.” _

“Huh.”

You shake your head and wave the textbook. 

“There’s a dinner party tonight.”

“_Fuck_ that.”

“Right?”

You toe the dirt for a second while Daryl tries to pin the look on your face. He can’t put his thumb on it. Under the high noon sun, you glow with a melancholy sort of aura. Sad. Lonely. Makes his chest ache a little. 

You sigh. “You goin’ out?”

“Might as well,” he scoffs, “Ain’t got a job yet.”

“Be careful.”

A smirk. “Me?”

It prompts another one of those tight-lipped smiles you do, the ones that are becoming more frequent. You knock his arm with your fist gently as you pass, rolling your eyes. 

“Shut up.”

“Need anything?” he asks as he begins to walk backwards, eyes still stuck to your figure.

“A drink, maybe.”

Daryl snorts. “M’ sure the dinner party will have some, huh.”

“Don’t remind me,” you call over your shoulder, “Have fun, wild child.”

The middle finger tossed your way is affectionate. 

** ✘ **

Aaron finds him in the woods. 

And they find Buttons. 

And Daryl realizes he might as well try. 

After Beth… it was hard to fuckin’ stomach the idea of trying. _It is. _Her death still stings like a fresh wound. Besides Rick, besides Carol, Beth was the only other person who’d managed to really know him. To stand him. Daryl, in all his bitterness, ended up being able to call Beth a friend – they were different people, wildly different, but they’d kept each other sane when things got bleak and when she went missin’… He felt a part of himself go missin’, too. Just like after Merle. 

That was for the best, though – Merle’s death. 

He could be Daryl, after that. Not Will Dixon’s son, not Merle Dixon’s baby brother. He could be Daryl Dixon. 

And Beth Greene had been a friend to Daryl Dixon.

And you? You’re… _you’re getting there._

“Who is she?” Aaron asks on the trek back to the walls.

Daryl blinks a few times at the curly haired man over his shoulder before throwing a scoff into the air. He swings his crossbow over his shoulder. 

“Who?” he hoots, trying to seem indifferent, “Boston?”

“… Is that what you call her?”

Daryl shrugs. Aaron chews the inside of his lip. He sees the tense nature that creeps into the trackers posture. 

“I heard you saved her,” Aaron asks, careful in his words, “In the city?”

“Almost didn’t,” he grunts, hauling through the brush. He seems to snarl at the memory, “I did, though, and… She’s a good person. Took a gamble, but she’s good. Sometimes y’ gotta trust your gut.”

“Deanna said she was a teacher… Before all this, I mean.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she wants to do it no more,” Daryl cuts in, “She ain’t… I dunno. None of us are who we used t’ be.”

Aaron falls quiet at that.

“You think you’ll try…?”

As the walls of Alexandria come back into view, Daryl wrings the strap of his crossbow. 

“Maybe.”

** ✘ **

He does. 

And you do, too.

You’re two beers in when you finally decide this dinner party wasn’t worth the threats Michonne and Carol had both hurled at you in an attempt to get you to go – you tug the cardigan you’d thrown on over your sun-dress tighter around your shoulders as you decide that some air would be best and move to meander towards the front porch. 

The sounds from inside sound foreign.

_Alive_.

And as you step outside, you catch the familiar figure of Daryl Dixon retreating down the street. At the sound of the door closing, he turns around – 

And it’s like gettin’ _punched in the gut._

He knew you were pretty before but… he knows you’re real pretty now. You’ve got a pretty dress on and your hair is done up in neat braids and you’ve got a necklace on that glimmers in the porch light. 

If this was before everything, Daryl is convinced you wouldn’t have even looked his way. Not once. 

Your buzz peaks at the sound of his trademarked scoff. You follow the sound, lazily trudging down the steps and meeting him half-way on the sidewalk. 

Something hangs in the air between you both, and your lips turn down in an amused smile. You’re closer now, noticing that he’s finally showered and changed into a nicer shirt. This one has a damn collar for god’s sake. His usual vest, though, still hangs from his shoulders as he eyes the party over your shoulder. 

“How was it?” he asks finally, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Shit,” you chirp, noting the parallel from your earlier conversation as you drop your head and offer your half-full beer his way, “Not goin’ in?”

“_Fuck_ that.”

He takes the beer and snags a long sip, tipping it back as you both begin to head back down the block towards the houses Deanna has allotted for the group. The silence is comfortable; between the sounds of your steps the night creeps out into the walls. Crickets and peepers and coyotes and… and if you close your eyes you can pretend everything’s normal again.

And you try.

And then, a voice calls out –

_ “Hey!” _

Both you and Daryl turn, eyes wide.

It’s Aaron – the lights of his house glow warm behind him. Beside you, Daryl’s face warps in confusion.

“Thought you were goin’ t’ that party over there –”

“Oh, I was never going to go ‘cause of Eric’s ankle,” the man glances up, laughing a little, “_Thank god.”_

Daryl squints, posture stiff. “Why’d you tell me t’ go then, huh?”

You blink between the two of them. Aaron does the same. 

“You tried. It’s… I dunno, it’s the thought that counts.”

Aaron catches the glimmer of understanding the passes over your face. 

“Look,” Aaron starts, “Come in. I made spaghetti… It’s… It’s pretty good –”

Blue eyes pass to you. You snag the beer, take a sip, then shrug. 

“Don’t look at _me_.”

“You comin’?” he asks, brows furrowing. 

“You’re both more than welcome –”

Your head moves between them both as you swallow, a bit of awe on your face as you realize Daryl’s pinned this on you; it’s a moment of comradery, a moment of ‘going down together’, and… and it’s nice.

So, you shake your head and give a little laugh and gesture for Daryl to lead the way. 

And he does. 

** ✘ **

You’re relatively quiet during dinner – conversation fleets between Aaron and Eric who supply a hefty portion of noodles and wine. You have to admit it’s nicer than Deanna’s; you don’t feel like you need to smile and wave and maintain an unwavering sense of politeness. Daryl certainly feels the same way and you roll your eyes as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. 

You shove your boot his way under the table. He makes a face. You hand him a napkin and he scoffs with his mouthful of spaghetti. 

“M’ good, _thanks_.”

He proceeds, then, to slurp another pile up and you pull a face.

“Sorry about him,” you mutter towards Aaron and Eric who share surprised looks between the two of you, “He’s part _animal_–”

The corner of his mouth is pulled upwards as he laughs, hunched over his meal. “Shut up.”

“Jerk.”

“_Bitch_.”

And for the first time, you flash a full smile his way before sipping your wine. 

Eric just… _sips his drink. _Aaron kicks him under the table.

And all is well.

** ✘ **

Aaron wants him to recruit. 

Your whole world is glowing from the wine buzz when he shows you both the garage, littered with bike parts. Daryl, then, seems to perk up – he gravitates towards the table full of gears and engine components before taking pause. 

It makes you wonder about the question you’d asked him the night before. About who he was before all this. Clearly, all this means something to him. You’re just not sure what. 

“I don’t want Eric risking his life anymore –”

“Yeah,” Daryl breathes, “You want me riskin’ mine,_ right?”_

From your spot in the doorway, you feel the bite of anxiety grab at your heartstrings. Eric, beside you, must have noticed, because his hand is careful on your arm. You spare him a tight-lipped smile as Daryl pulls the blanket off the bike and steps back; reminds him of his brother’s bike but… newer. This one isn’t a low-ride. It’s fast. Lean. Mean. 

He catches your eyes through the bike’s frame and Aaron’s pose. 

“Yeah,” Aaron exhales, “because you know what you’re doing. You’re good out there. And… because you do know the difference between a good person and a bad person.”

Your eyes hit the ground.

“You talked about saving her,” Aaron says, gesturing to you, “And… And – we need that. _Alexandria_needs that.”

The air is heavy when Daryl finally speaks. “I got nothin’ else to do.”

You have to laugh, smile creating dimples in your cheeks as Eric mimics the gesture. Daryl winds himself around the bike, waving to Aaron. 

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get you some rabbits.”

And you can tell Daryl is trying. 

** ✘ **

The evening is quiet and you and Daryl are shoulder to shoulder on the front steps of the house. 

The cigarette in his hands is nearing its end, embers swallowing it whole as ash litters the stoop. Daryl takes one last drag before dropping the butt to the cement and smothering it with the toe of his boot. It dies quick and the smoke that swirls around him is a little dizzying.

You’re still drunk.

He is, too, if he’s being honest. The wine snuck up on him. 

You lean back on your elbows, watching him. 

“You’re gonna do it, then?”

“What?”

“Recruit,” you say slowly, “For this place.”

“Might as well.”

“So, we’re stayin’?”

“Gonna try.”

He looks back at you and you snort, blinking up at the moon. 

“… Alright.”

Daryl nudges your boot with his. “What’s that mean, huh?”

“Nothin’,” you chirp, lolling your head his way, “I’ll have t’ wait by the gates fer you to come back, I guess.”

His heart hammers a little.

_ “Shut up.” _

“M’ serious,” you cry, shoving his arm, “It’s… That… _I dunno.”_

“What?” he presses, chin jutting as he speaks, “Use yer words, Boston.”

You roll your eyes. “That my nickname now?”

“Always been.”

“Gonna start callin’ you _Dipstick_,” you mutter, “Cuz you like ‘em so much.”

He laughs at that. “I’m surprised you even know what a damn dipstick is.”

“I know things,” you chirp, “I can check my own oil.”

He leans back, lip quirked. You’re still watching the sky, stray fly-aways escaping your braids. It’s cute. You’re pretty, still, in the glow of his four glasses of wine. Prettier than before. Maybe it’s the moon. Makes you all kinds of starry-eyed. 

“Ain’t you somethin’ special.” 

He means it. 

“I will wait, though, at the gates,” you slur, “Make sure yer okay.”

His eyes narrow. Daryl mimics your posture, leaning back on the top step with his elbows and reclining a bit. You cross your legs at your ankles and sigh, prompting him to press on. 

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re th’ only person here I like,” you supply, “Besides… I dunno, the others don’t count. I like ‘em enough but they ain’t my friends.”

_Friends_. 

It’s like a punch in the gut. 

“Friends, huh?” he asks quietly, “That what we are?”

You turn your eyes to him and his dart away. “I’d like t’ be.”

“_Alright_.”

“Friends, then.”

“Yeah.”

For the second time tonight, you look alive.


End file.
